It was a sweltering afternoon in Chennai, the kind where the air itself felt thick and heavy. I was new to the city, still navigating its bustling streets when a small barbershop caught my eye. What was unusual wasn't the shop itself, but the owner. A young woman, her head completely shaven, was meticulously working on a child. The starkness of her bald head was striking, yet it somehow enhanced her beauty, lending her a regal presence.
I sat on the bench outside, drawn by an invisible pull. She was incredibly swift, her hands a blur as she shaved the child's head. Within minutes, the boy was completely bald, rubbing his scalp with a satisfied grin. Then, the woman’s gaze met mine, and she gestured me in.
As I settled into the chair, I couldn't help but think of the many shaved head stories I’d heard about travelers finding themselves in local barbershops, but I never expected to be the protagonist of one.
"Shave or haircut?" she asked.
"A haircut would be fine," I replied, my eyes still drawn to her smooth scalp. As she gathered her tools, I ventured the question: "Why did you shave your head?"
She turned to face me fully. "In Chennai, especially during the summer, people often prefer a shaved head," she explained. "And this is my livelihood. If I had hair, customers might feel hesitant to ask for a headshave, thinking I wouldn't understand. Keeping my head shaved makes people comfortable."
"Your head looks so smooth," I blurted out. "When did you shave it?"
She let out a soft laugh. "Every day. I keep it smooth so people are drawn to it. Like you were." My cheeks flushed, but she just chuckled. "You're not the first. I see it all the time. People come in, curious about the shaved head, and I assume that’s why you’re here too."
She leaned in slightly, her gaze direct. "So, what's it going to be? A haircut, or shall I give you the full headshave experience? I do a very good headshave. You'll love it. If you don't, you don't pay."
The offer was bold. "Okay," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Let's try the headshave."
She retrieved a gleaming straight razor and began to dampen my hair. Next, she applied a generous lather of shaving gel, massaging it into my scalp. She expertly tilted my head down and made the first careful stroke right in the center. A thick swath of lather and hair slid down onto the cape. In the mirror, a perfectly shaved patch was revealed.
She continued with long, confident strokes. My hair fell away, revealing the contours of my head. Soon, I was completely bare. She wiped my scalp until it gleamed and applied a refreshing aftershave, followed by a soothing oil massage.
"So," she asked softly, "What do you think? Was it good?"
"I loved it," I replied, feeling more relaxed than I had in weeks.
"Headshave is my specialty," she beamed.
When I asked for the price, she said fifty rupees. I handed her a hundred and told her to keep the change. "I'm going to be here for a few weeks," I told her. "I think I'll be back every day for a headshave."
A playful smile touched her lips. "In that case, I'll give you a discount next time."
As I left the shop, I ran my hand over my new look. I realized that of all the shaved head stories I could have ended up with, this one—the feeling of the cool breeze on my smooth skin—was definitely my favorite.
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